


Love, Canadian Style

by Ignaz Wisdom (ignaz)



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, get turnbull laid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-08
Updated: 2006-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignaz/pseuds/Ignaz%20Wisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Ray wondered why he'd ever thought it would be a good idea to have sex with Canadians.  The politeness alone was going to kill him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, Canadian Style

**Author's Note:**

> For Get Turnbull Laid, prompt #15, submitted by slidellra: "Ray turns up drunk at the Consulate, looking for Fraser. He finds Turnbull instead." Super huge thanks to Chris for beta reading this, and apologies to all the Turnbull fans at Get Turnbull Laid for the delay. Original post date: December 8, 2006.

Ray wasn't sure how he ended up at the front door of the Canadian Consulate at o-drunk-thirty in the morning, trying to pick the lock with a credit card, but he sure as hell hoped it had been legal. Did he drive? Jeez, no -- he might have been plastered but he wasn't stupid. Or maybe he was stupid. Drinking himself into a horny stupor and then breaking into the Consulate to see his sober, straight partner was pretty stupid. Wasn't stopping him, though. The booze running through his veins made him single-minded and kind of slutty. All he could think about was red. Red Mountie uniforms. Fraser's long red pajamas which should look completely ridiculous, but which actually looked so fucking hot on Fraser that Ray could hardly stand it. He wondered if Fraser was wearing the red pajamas now. Oh, yeah. Tight red longjohns hugging every muscle and curve ...

Ray jiggled the door handle, but no dice. His breaking and entering skills were shot to hell. Instead, he knocked his forehead gently against the giant wooden door, turned around, and slid gracelessly to the ground, his back against the Consulate's front.

He thought he might just stay there, not moving, for the rest of the night, until the sun rose and Fraser discovered him slumped against the door, passed out and hungover. But as that bleak thought penetrated the jello bowl that was his brain, the world started to shift. The wall at his back moved away. He made a guttural noise and fell slowly backwards until he lay flat, half inside the Consulate and half outside the Consulate, looking directly upwards at the tall ceiling and a concerned face hovering some six feet off the ground.

"Frr ..." he said, struggling to identify his partner. Fraser didn't look like himself, but since he was miles and miles and too many drinks away, Ray figured that was understandable.

"Oh dear!" the face above him exclaimed. There was some shuffling, some head swimming, and some stomach lurching, and then he was being hefted to his feet, supported by Canada's finest -- in red pajamas, even.

Ray's legs were like wet spaghetti underneath him, but there was at least six feet of Mountie to lean on, so he slung an arm around his partner's shoulders and held on. Then he slung the other arm around, shoved his fingers through his partner's hair, and -- just to show his gratitude -- planted one right on Fraser's mouth. He was just about to get a little friendlier with Fraser's backside when --

"Detective Vecchio!"

The muddled bits of his brain put two and two together and --

"Turnbull," he mumbled. Damn. Wrong Mountie.

Turnbull's worried face finally appeared clearly in his line of vision. "Detective Vecchio," it said, "are you all right? Are you injured? Do you know where you are?"

Ray felt his face heat. Aw, jeez. He'd just kissed Turnbull. He'd just kissed Turnbull, mistaking him for Fraser. There were now a million ways this night could end, and all of them looked ugly.

At least Turnbull didn't seem too freaked out by it yet. Instead, he was patiently guiding Ray to an room just off the front hall, leading him to a couch, urging him to sit. Ray obeyed, too sloshed and too shocked by the mistaken identity to put up a protest. The couch was surprisingly comfy, for a country that made its cops wear those uniforms and sleep on cots -- and oh, God, he did not need to be thinking about Fraser's uniform and Fraser's bed, especially when a pajama-wearing Mountie was kneeling in front of him, and his humiliation over trying to grope Turnbull didn't seem to be doing a damn thing to curb his libido.

Ray closed his eyes, noticing the sensation of fingers on his face, sifting through his hair, like they were looking for some sort of lump. It actually felt pretty good. Soothing. He relaxed into it, letting Turnbull have at it with his head.

"Detective Vecchio?" Turnbull said again, and suddenly, Ray found the fake name irritating.

"Ray," he said. He opened one eye to see Turnbull giving him a curious look -- or at least he thought it was curious. Turnbull was unpredictable like that. "My name is Ray," he added for good measure.

"Oh, Detective Vecchio," Turnbull said, practically gushing, "I mean -- _Ray_. I'm so glad you remember who you are."

He laughed weakly. Turnbull didn't know the half of it. Ray was having a pretty hard time remembering much of anything at the moment: who he was, who he was pretending to be, who he'd come here to see in the first place ...

"Um," he said. "Turnbull."

"Yes, Ray?"

The man's chipper voice was bordering on annoying, but the hands combing through his hair still felt amazing. "I'm sorry," Ray said. "About earlier. When I came in here, and ... you know. Laid one on you."

"Laid what on me, sir?"

Ray closed his eyes and wondered if the night's humiliations would ever end. "When I accidentally kissed you, Turnbull. I forgot where I was," he lied.

"Oh, you needn't apologize, Detective -- Ray," Turnbull said warmly. "You can kiss me any time you feel it's necessary."

It took Ray's fuzzy brain an extra second to process that information. He ran it through his mental American filter, which immediately short-circuited, and then he ran it through his mental Canadian filter, where it made slightly more sense. "In the pursuit of justice?" he asked, going on a hunch.

"Most certainly," Turnbull said fervently, reverently, the way any normal guy -- a guy like Ray -- might talk about supermodels or the GTO or his mom's pierogies. Coming from Turnbull, justice sounded kind of hot.

Perversely, Ray asked, "Or maybe just for the hell of it?"

"Ray," Turnbull said, the name sounding almost as sacred as _justice_, "I would be quite honored."

"Really," Ray said, trying to think of ways that their conversation could be wildly misinterpreted by either side, because there was no way this could be heading where he thought it was heading. "Uh, I didn't know that about you, Turnbull."

Ray watched, trying to keep his head upright, as Turnbull visibly straightened his back and steeled himself. Then quietly, determinedly, Turnbull asked, "May I?"

Ray wasn't entirely sure what was being asked, but he was interested in the way their little talk was going, and the proximity of red woolen longjohns was keeping him interested in other things, too, so he bobbed his head in assent. The fact that Turnbull apparently kissed like a sixth grader did little to cool his jets. After all, some of his all-time favorite kissing took place in the sixth grade.

Ray realized that he probably stank like a liquor store, but God, Turnbull smelled good. Like pine trees and snow somehow, even though there was no way he could possibly smell like those things. Turnbull wasn't Fraser -- but then, nobody was Fraser. Some days, even Fraser couldn't be Fraser. Sure, Turnbull was a little crazy, and maybe not the brightest crayon in the box, but he was good-looking and not an asshole, plus he was there and willing, which put him two up on Fraser already.

Ray figured, drunkenly, that this was way too good of a chance to pass up. He told Turnbull as much by trying to shove his tongue down the other man's throat. Turnbull's muffled response sounded more like surprise than outrage, so Ray went with it, dragging Turnbull onto the couch next to him and grappling at the buttons on the front of his bright red longjohns. He wondered if they were RCMP-issued, or if Fraser and Turnbull had to buy their own. They looked like they were tailor-made. They'd look better, Ray thought, on the floor.

But it didn't look like they were going to get that far, judging from the rapid speed of Turnbull's breath and the flushed color of his face. The guy was clearly enjoying himself, maybe a little too quickly, even though Ray hadn't actually done anything yet, and Turnbull hadn't even moved his hands from the safe territory of Ray's waist. Ray managed to get a few buttons undone, enough to expose Turnbull's pale chest and lean belly. He slid his hands inside the red wool, followed by his mouth, licking Turnbull's collar bone while his thumbs slid sharply over Turnbull's nipples. Turnbull yelped like a startled puppy. Suddenly unsure of himself again, Ray mumbled an apology and moved his hands downward, undoing a few more buttons along the way. He'd barely wrapped his hand around the base of Turnbull's dick when he jerked wildly, made a sound halfway between a moan and a sigh, and shot all over Ray's hand and his own longjohns.

"Wow," Ray said, as Turnbull caught his breath.

"Oh," Turnbull said quietly, "oh, Ray, that was -- that was _marvelous_ ..."

"Hey, no problem," Ray interjected, stopping him before he could start reciting poetry or something. His own dick ached and he shifted uncomfortably on the couch. The movement seemed to catch Turnbull's attention; his gaze dropped and his eyes widened.

"Ray," Turnbull said, licking nervously at a corner of his mouth and barely moving his eyes from Ray's crotch, "may I?"

Ray wondered why he'd ever thought it would be a good idea to have sex with Canadians. The politeness alone was going to kill him. "Yeah, sure," he said, trying for casual. "Knock yourself out," he added, and then he shut up real fast, because this was Turnbull, and he might take the suggestion literally.

With barely concealed rapture, Turnbull reached for the fly of Ray's jeans. Ray met him there, loosening the button and shifting his hips to help Turnbull move the restrictive fabric out of the way.

It occurred to Ray, as Turnbull slid to the floor and lowered his head to give Ray the world's most amateur blow job, to wonder just how much sexual experience Turnbull had had. Sure, Turnbull was younger than him -- younger than Fraser -- but he wasn't that young, and more to the point, he wasn't as _old_ as Ray and Fraser. Then again, maybe never getting any play was some kind of Mountie rule. Fraser definitely wasn't getting any, despite having the entire female population of Chicago to choose from, and a good chunk of the men, too.

So Ray was willing to bet that Turnbull didn't get laid much, and that he'd probably never sucked dick, but what he lacked in skill, he made up for in enthusiasm -- and Ray made up for the rest in pure horniness. When he came, it was with a long, satisfied groan, and even if it was Fraser's mouth he was picturing, he managed not to slip up with any names.

Afterwards, Turnbull looked so pleased with himself that Ray had to smile. When Turnbull thanked him for "a most delightfully surprising evening," Ray even laughed.

Only after the cab stopped outside his apartment did he start to wonder why Turnbull had been at the Consulate that late at night, and where Fraser, who _lived_ at the Consulate, had been.

* * *

In his office, Benton Fraser continued to press his ear to the wall and his hand to the front of his longjohns, where his erection throbbed under the warm material. He bit his lip and made a mental note to scold himself in the morning.


End file.
